


your head, my heart

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Mentioned Mercedes von Martritz, Mentioned My Unit | Byleth, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Enbarr or Fhirdiad, Gilbert asked, a resigned ultimatum to the Professor.Byleth chose king. Felix chose country.And so, Felix left.An exploration into the potentially deleted alternate Azure Moon path.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	your head, my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags. 
> 
> Based on the content of [these](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nxc--LNrzZQ) [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iG35-BifhWI) videos of datamined content.

Two days ago, Felix left. 

_Enbarr or Fhirdiad_ , Gilbert asked, a resigned ultimatum to the Professor. 

Heart or logic? Blindly ahead or hopefully behind? Vengeance or salvation?

King or country?

It was, Sylvain knew, not an easy choice; no way of knowing what either future could bring, the potential to lose it all down both foggy, winding paths. He had not known if there was truly a correct option. He had not known that choosing wrongly would lead to losing Felix. 

Had the decision been in his own less-than-reliable hands, Sylvain could not say he would have chosen what their Professor did, to follow Dimitri, to stand by their liege even in his darkest moments. The people of Faerghus had starved and suffered for five long, hellish years, waiting, hoping, praying for the return of their king to their country.

And their king had rejected them, hellbent on following bloodlust and vengeance to the fiery depths that awaited them all, sparing no thought for those who would crumble with him.

Byleth chose king. Felix chose country.

And so, Felix left. 

Annette, too kind, too earnest, too gentle, too caring, too unwilling to let her mother (her family) fall to harm’s way, had gone with him. Excellent mage though she was, Annette was not sworn to land and king, not the way those of houses Fraldarius and Gautier were, and Sylvain did not begrudge her departure. Warm hugs, tearful farewells, well-wishes for her family; those empty promises were all he had to offer her. She took them gratefully into her heart, even as she turned away to walk her own path back to their home. 

The fabric of their small army, ragtag reunited classmates and worn-down hardened knights, suddenly found itself with a gaping, irreparable hole in the shape of two noble heirs, unwilling to sacrifice themselves and their people any longer.

Those who stayed behind could not mend themselves together, the loss of their friends crippling. Destabilizing. Pulling them faster onto a collision course with death itself.

The years of fighting had instilled a numbness into Sylvain. He swung and jabbed the Lance of Ruin, letting the blood from its gruesome work slough off him in rough layers, death’s cursed poison and unwashable stench burned into his soul until he could feel weighed down no more.

After so many years of fighting, pain, scars, Sylvain thought there was little that could still hurt him. How wrong he had been.

Byleth had chosen, and Felix had left.

And Sylvain — tied to duty, too ensnared, too _scared_ to cut himself free, petrified by the horror of Felix’s betrayal — had stayed.

* * *

Sunlight danced merrily overhead as they marched toward Fhirdiad, air clean and crisp, spring having fully taken hold. The Horsebow Moon brought the tired, sluggish land of Faerghus back into full bloom, the frost thawing just enough to allow the hardiest trees and blossoms to shyly return color to the cold, gray terrain. 

The mood, too, of their army had brightened, their prince finally shattering the chains of vengeance that had weighed him down for so long. It had taken a long four months to find Dimitri again under his layered guilt and self-loathing, his hope rekindled by Dedue’s reappearance, his sense of self unearthed in Rodrigue’s dying plea.

Dimitri’s return brought with it a hearty sigh of relief, even as they mourned Rodrigue. 

And though Dimitri came back, Felix and Annette had not.

Sylvain wondered if Felix had heard word of their victory at Gronder, pyrrhic though it may have been, another hopeful sign of turning tides and a war that might finally be winnable. If he knew that Dimitri’s fight was not in vain, would he return? Could he fight by their side again? 

Had Felix heard news of Rodrigue? Would he blame them for his father’s death? Blame _him_?

The months since Felix and Annette’s departure held only stony silence, news from Faerghus slow and sparse, filtered through what few messengers Fraldarius could spare while still holding off further encroachment by Cornelia and her Faerghus Dukedom. 

Was Felix at home, leading his men to hold their line against Imperial forces? Had Annette been able to find safe passage back to Fhirdiad and her mother? Would they keep an ear open, waiting for a sign that the time was right to return to Garreg Mach?

When they had returned to the monastery to bury Rodrigue, Sylvain had hoped to see Felix storm through the gates, demanding and angry and finally back where he belonged. The days ticked past, the tenuous peace brought by Dimitri’s reemergence undisturbed, taking with them piece by piece the seed of hope that had sprouted unbidden in Sylvain’s heart.

As it was most days, their march was quiet other than the disordered clanking of armor and the muffled, clipped beat of the gait of the horses below them. The Tailtean Plains lay vast and soundless around them, the faint rush of rivers buried beneath the noises of their army.

Fhirdiad rose in the distance, familiar and foreboding. 

It had never been home to Sylvain as it was to the others, Gautier too removed and too burdened by endless skirmishes with Sreng. Even so, the sight of long-forgotten turrets and walls filled him with nostalgia; distant memories of childhood laughter echo across the years. Sylvain’s last visit to the capital had been nearly ten years prior, the city shrouded in black, mourning the loss of its king to the Tragedy of Duscur.

Their approach today was somber, reserved, nerves steeled for the brutal battle to reclaim their home. Like the others that had lead to this point, it would be a difficult fight, bloody and destructive. Sylvain was not the praying sort, but he could spare one such wish for today’s battle for the soul of Faerghus. 

May Sothis guide them to victory.

The city gates stood tall, far from the welcoming doors of Sylvain’s memory. The typical noise of the markets did not drift out to meet them, the people of Fhirdiad gone from their usual posts, replaced instead by the distant chants and crashes of rioting.

“ _Long live the king! Long live the king!_ ”

Uncomfortable, quiet laughter filtered through the ranks as slow realization crept in, the release of tension stilted and jarring.

Their home had not abandoned them. It had waited these five years. 

A collective hush fell over the assembled soldiers as Dimitri turned to speak.

“Everyone! Listen well! This battle is for all that the Empire stole for us. It is a fight to reclaim the days of peace we once enjoyed. I give you but two commands — stay alive, and follow your heart. That is all I ask. The gates to the Kingdom capital are open. Join me! It is time to take back our home!”

The cheer that rung out was deafening, maddening, its hope infectious. 

Sylvain smiled, tired but emboldened by the cheer around him. Perhaps this would be a fortuitous day. Perhaps the goddess had not truly abandoned them.

* * *

They stormed the city, charging in to recover their rightful home. Sylvain and Ingrid followed Dimitri west, Mercedes, Ashe, and Dedue pushing east behind the Professor. 

They had not gotten far — their lances barely bloodied by the remains of Adrestian infantrymen — when a familiar scream cut through the air, high and agonized. The voice was one that Sylvain had not heard in quite some time, one whose light-hearted and earnest laughter Sylvain dearly wished could grace his ears once more.

Annette, was she here? The noise — it had come from the direction the Professor had gone in. Why was she here? _Now_? During this battle? As a civilian, she should have stayed home, protected her family from retaliation, stayed _away_ from the battle. 

Why was she here? _Why_?

Perhaps it had only been a similar cry, the voice of an enemy soldier being felled. 

But no, they had learned together, fought together, bled together. Sylvain would know Annette’s voice — her sweet, sunny personality, her boundless enthusiasm — anywhere. 

He just didn’t want it to be here.

Could Annette — _would Annette_ have joined the enemy to protect her family?

Had she been forced into it? Had it truly come to that?

If only they had _stayed_ , then their army could have protected her. Kept her from choosing the enemy, kept her safe, kept the family they had found in each other whole.

In the end, though, leaving had been her choice. Sylvain couldn’t begrudge her that. 

The desire to fall back and chase down the source shook through Sylvain. He needed to know, to _confirm_ that it was Annette who fell. Sylvain could not stand losing a friend, not so blindly to the war, without a goodbye, without tears. Was today another day for felling friendly faces? 

As though sensing his indecision, Ingrid alighted on the rooftop nearest him. 

“Sylvain!” she called. “I-I think that was Annette.”

“I think so too.” Sylvain could grant his thoughts only a horrified whisper, as though saying them louder would make them more true. 

His hands trembled with the temptation to swing Beauty around, to charge toward their companions and find out what had happened for himself.

“Sylvain.” Ingrid’s voice was softer now, but no less stern. “We have to keep going. If it was Annette… well, it’s too late.”

Ingrid was right. Sylvain could not let himself get distracted, not when there was still bloody work to be done. Reclaiming Fhirdiad came first. He adjusted his grip on the Lance, his left hand tightening on the reins, desperate to steady both himself and Beauty below him. 

A colder thought struck Sylvain, the blood of another footsoldier splattering around him as he pulled himself out its way.

_Was Felix here too?_

Would he, in grief, in fear, in desperation, have joined forces with Cornelia? Abandoned his territory to fight for the enemy? Betrayed them, betrayed _himself_ , so deeply that he would wear Imperial colors?

Sylvain moved to dodge an arrow, just a little too slow on the uptake, his body frozen in the dread that Felix might be the next enemy. His shoulder stung as the arrow struck him, embedding itself in his armor. 

He didn’t have time for this. 

He wrenched the arrow away, letting the blood flow freely as he fell back slightly, Ingrid diving down to cover him as he used what little white magic he knew to heal himself, just enough to staunch the bleeding. The wound still stung as Sylvain re-gripped his lance, charging back into the fray.

If Felix was an enemy, then he could deal with that when the moment came.

* * *

“It’s you, boar!” Felix’s call rang out across the city’s streets.

Sylvain froze, head turning slowly toward his friend, another soldier’s body sliding sloppily off the Lance, the blood running off it in uneven rivulets. The stench of death was heavy in the city now, corpses piled high, both Adrestian and Faerghan soldiers littering the ground around him, each of Beauty’s steps a wet _squish_ through the destruction. 

The Professor shot Sylvain a worried glance before chasing after Dimitri. They had regrouped not too long ago, the tear-tracks on Mercedes’s face and Byleth’s sad nod silent acknowledgement of Annette’s death at their own army’s hands.

There must have — they should have _saved_ her. There must have been a way.

But she was gone, and now Felix too stood in their way.

Sylvain could not let Felix become another casualty to this war, especially not so soon after losing another dear friend. He charged ahead, ignoring the pain radiating from the multitude of injuries decorating his body, silently apologizing to Beauty for running him so ragged.

He quietly pulled to a halt behind Dimitri and the Professor, dismounting as he watched the confrontation unfold, eyes solemnly landing on Felix where he stood spitting poison at his former comrades.

“I’ll cut you down. Prepare yourself, you damn boar!” Felix roared, sword raised. 

Dimitri sighed softly, as though resigned to the fate of cutting down his once-closest-friend. “Very well. Come at me, Felix!”

Felix dove forward toward Dimitri, his slashes wilder than usual, his arc too wide. Dimitri dodged easily, parrying Felix’s blade effortlessly. The dance of their weapons glancing off one another, far too familiar and yet at the same time not at all, was a sickening and brutal mockery of the spars they had once had. Felix’s moved were fueled with anger, grief, far too raw and not at all like himself.

Sylvain watched helplessly as they fought, too cowardly to dive forward to stop his friends, too useless to repair the relationship that lay in shambles around him. Beside him, Byleth parried away Felix’s troops, cutting them down as they ran forward. 

What a scene they made, the king and his former friend dueling to the death, a useless third standing rooted in place to the side, and the church’s new chosen leader killing Faerghan soldiers on Faerghan soil, all in the name of handing its king back his throne. 

Sylvain could only stare, transfixed, as Felix’s anger undercut his usual lithe dexterity, Dimitri reading his every move. Felix parried too late. With a heavy slash, Areadbhar cut across Felix’s body, shredding his leather armor as though it were no more than paper, blood spattering grotesquely across the square. 

Felix fell to his knees, weakly grasping for his fallen sword as he struggled to stand. Dimitri raised his lance to finish his work and Sylvain’s life flashed before his eyes.

He couldn’t let Dimitri kill Felix.

He would never forgive Dimitri — never forgive _himself_ if he lost Felix this way. He couldn’t watch his friends cut each down, not when they should be standing shoulder to shoulder, fighting together for Fódlan’s peace. 

The Lance of Ruin clattered uselessly to the ground as Sylvain ran, charging headfirst into Dimitri with a heavy grunt. They tumbled to the ground, Areadbhar falling heavily from Dimitri’s grasp as Sylvain landed on his friend.

“Dimitri, Your Highness, please — _please_ , don’t do it, don’t do it,” Sylvain babbled incoherently as he lay heavily across Dimitri’s back. “Please, Your Highness, we don’t have to do it, we can bring him back, we don’t have to lose Felix too, _please_.”

Dimitri groaned as he pushed Sylvain away, leaving Sylvain to crumple into an unintelligible mess on the ground, words still pouring senselessly from his lips. 

Felix let out a weak _tsk_ beside him, words garbled behind the pain of his wounds. “I don’t need your help… I can fight for myself. If today is my last day… so be it. I won’t fight for the boar. I won’t be… my father. I won’t… let him do to me… what he did to my father… and Glenn.”

Sylvain pushed himself up to crawl to Felix, shakily taking his hand. 

“I do not wish to kill Felix,” said Dimitri, sighing once more. “But if he chooses to stand in my way, I cannot forgive him for betraying Faerghus.”

Dimitri stood with Areadbhar carefully poised, not quite ready to attack and kill, but by no means a passive stance. “I do not wish to make a corpse of you, Felix. You were — _are_ a very dear friend, and we may not see eye to eye, but if you surrender, I promise that no further harm will come to you or your men.” 

Felix let out a choked bark of laughter. “What, like what you did… with that… Imperial commander after the battle at Garreg Mach? …What was his name? Bergliez?”

Sylvain squeezed Felix’s hand, desperate. His hand was far too cold, far too limp. “You don’t have to _die_ because you can’t see yourself by Dimitri’s side. You just have to surrender. I don’t want to fight you, I don’t want to kill you. Please, Felix. Live. _Live_. Don’t you remember our promise?” 

Oh goddess, Felix was going to be the same stubborn asshole he always was, and he was going to bleed out, here in the battle-torn streets of Fhirdiad, for it. Sylvain searched himself for the faith to cast _Heal_ to staunch the bleeding, but what hope was there to be found when the light of his life lay dying in front of him? 

Where was Mercedes? _Where was Mercie?_ She could fix this, heal him, _save him_. 

Felix coughed out another rasping breath. “…Looks like I can’t really fight… in this state, boar. You win… for now.”

“Please, _please_ , Felix. Please don’t die. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die,” Sylvain chanted quietly, tears stinging his eyes. 

Dimitri heaved another sigh above them before turning away. “I must find Cornelia and kill her. If you still stand in my way, Felix, I cannot show you mercy. But for now… I hope you survive this, friend. ...I will ask Mercedes to come this way.”

Dimitri walked off, calling toward the Professor to join him as they forged ahead together toward the central square and palace, leaving silence in their wake.

The seconds slowly ticked by, Felix’s choked breathing and Sylvain’s sniffles the only sounds piercing the air around them. The battle had been a slog, and Sylvain had long run out of vulneraries. With nothing left he could do but wait, Sylvain frantically tried to _Heal_ Felix, but the wound was too deep for his poor skills and Felix’s flesh refused to knit itself back together. 

Sylvain could only watch as the life slowly seeped away from Felix, fell away one drop, one gasp, at a time.

He clung to Felix’s hand, whispering prayer after prayer. If there was any time Sylvain needed the goddess to hear him, it was in this moment. 

“Stay with me, Felix. Mercie will be here any moment. Any moment. Stay with me, bud.” 

Goddess, he had never even been able to tell Felix that he loved him. _Tomorrow_ , he had promised himself countless times before Felix’s departure. _When this war is over_ , he had promised himself after. Now he might never get that chance. 

“Sylvain!” Ingrid’s cry came from above them, accompanied by a strong rush of wind as her pegasus landed gently. “Oh goddess, Felix.”

She quickly dropped down from her pegasus, landing on her feet as lightly as ever before turning to help another down. 

_Mercedes_.

Thank the goddess, she was a sight for sore eyes. 

Mercedes gracefully accepted Ingrid’s hand as she clambered off Chevalier’s back. She quickly gathered her skirts as she hurried to Felix’s side, rapidly muttering incantations for her white magic. She collapsed to Felix’s side, taking the hand that was not clasped in Sylvain’s, channeling her healing magic through him as fervently as possible. 

“Mercie, you’re a real sight to behold.”

She threw him a light, admonishing look, not bothering to pause in her work.

Seiros, he could kiss her right now. Mercedes was an angel sent by Sothis herself, heavenly ordained to save them all. He would buy her the moon, or whatever it was she desired. She deserved it, so many times over.

She worked silently, her only sound the quiet rush of white magic passing from her hand to Felix’s, brow knit in concentration as she carefully evaluated the results of her efforts.

It was not instantaneous, but the ugly gash on Felix’s torso slowly grew back together, leaving only a faint pink scar in its wake. His color did not improve — he had lost too much blood — but his breathing evened out and Felix weakly, infinitesimally, tightened the grip of the hand that lay loosely within Sylvain’s. 

“I’m… still here.” Felix’s words were barely more than a breath, but they kindled hope in Sylvain nonetheless. Felix was always so _alive_ , and to see him pale, gaunt, was the stuff of nightmares. 

Time seemed to distort, minutes passing slowly, Felix zoning in and out of consciousness, mumbling words of apology to his mother, to Rodrigue, to Glenn. To all his dead, and none to the living, to _Sylvain_. Sylvain sat quietly at his side, still too tense and alert to trust that Felix could truly make a full recovery.

Behind them, Ingrid stood watch, lance raised to strike down any enemies who might approach. None did. They did had been thorough in their siege, and the only enemies who still remained were those at the castle.

They should have been there, beside Dimitri and the professor and the others, beating back the last of their foes within Fhirdiad, but the thought of leaving Felix to slowly die in the streets was unbearable, untenable. Sylvain’s place was here, beside the best friend he had ever known. His real mistake had been not keeping Felix at his side all those months ago.

After a time that seemed to stretch to eons, Mercedes sat back, wiping her brow.

“That’s all I can do here. I’m sorry it’s not perfect, but Felix will make it through this.” She stood, walking around Felix to place a gentle hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “He’s going to be okay, Sylvain.” 

Sylvain released a harsh breath.

“Thank you — thank you, Mercedes. I don’t know how I, how we… can repay you. If there’s anything, anything at all, please, _please_ , I owe you my life. I owe you _Felix’s_ life.” Sylvain was rambling again. 

She offered him a sad smile. “It’s been a trying day, hasn’t it?”

Sylvain snorted. “You can say that again.” 

“Why don’t we get Felix to the local healers who are looking after the other injured, and then we can find Dimitri and the Professor?” 

Sylvain was loathe to leave Felix’s side, but she was not wrong. There was little they could do until Felix was rested, only so much that could happen until Felix had been taken to an infirmary and cared for. Mercedes’s healing was goddess-sent and life-saving, but it would be a long road to recovery still for Felix.

“Yeah… yeah. We should do that.”

* * *

Felix had fallen asleep on Sylvain’s horse, a mumbled _thanks_ to Ingrid his only word as she helped him up to lean against Sylvain. He was so small in Sylvain’s arms, his head resting heavily against Sylvain’s still-twinging shoulder, his normally fiery personality barely a flicker as he struggled to remain conscious. 

A small part of Sylvain had been tempted to ride off, away from Fhirdiad and from further fighting, the desire to protect Felix wild, unreasonable, and ridiculous. He had not even had any rations or water with him, let alone the necessary supplies for a grievously injured man. He could only wait.

Cornelia taunted Dimitri with her dying breath, her words of the late queen consort haunting and dissonant. Sylvain had only met Patricia once, but he remembered her to be a kindly woman, beautiful if not a bit sad, and the thought that she might have helped orchestrate the Tragedy was terrifying, not least because of how it made Dimitri fall into his worst self, angry and vicious, his ghosts gripping his every word.

It was only once the people had cheered the return of their king, once Dimitri had settled, calmed by the Professor’s guidance, that they were able to rest, finding their way into the palace, putting up the injured in state rooms turned temporary healing wards. They scrounged whatever supplies they could from the depths of the palace itself, adding what clean bandages and potions they could to their dwindling and meager stock.

Felix was placed in a private room, his former childhood bedchamber within the palace, far away from the other injured soldiers, ostensibly due to his noble status, but more for his betrayal of Faerghus. It hurt to know that Felix had chosen to fight for the enemy, that he would fight for the Empire first before returning to Dimitri’s side. He would always have been welcomed home with open arms, and still he chose Adrestia.

Had Sylvain ever been part of the equation? Had any of them, other than Dimitri and his father? Or had Sylvain merely been at best an afterthought, unnecessary, as unvalued as a person in this as in all other things?

What would Felix do now that Fhirdiad had been freed?

Sylvain kept a quiet vigil over Felix’s bed. More than once, Mercedes had to shake him out of his stupor and order him to eat or bathe, her voice gentle but stern. 

“It won’t do him any good for you to sit here, dirty and hungry. Felix will be okay.”

She had not-so-gently slammed the door on him after he’d been convinced to rise to his feet and leave the room, exiling Sylvain to wander the castle while she looked after Felix.

And so, days later, Sylvain still waited, first leaning against the wall, then in a chair beside Felix’s bed once Ingrid had realized he wasn’t going to leave to get one himself. The others had filtered in and out, checking in on Felix occasionally, quietly admonishing Sylvain to care for himself and to remind him to attend their war meetings. He refused.

When Dimitri had arrived, awkwardly hovering over the threshold with the Professor behind him, Sylvain hadn’t been able to meet his eye. It was unfair to blame Dimitri, he knew. Felix had jumped into the fight willing, eager, too ready to strike down his king, leaving Dimitri no choice but to fight back.

Dimitri had coughed uncomfortably. “I would like to speak to Felix when he wakes. I understand that you… may blame me for what has happened to Felix, and I cannot fault you for that. But please know, I care a great deal for him too, and want to do right by him, if I can.”

Sylvain had grunted some kind of assent, unwilling to keep up a friendly facade while Felix still lay unconscious, and Dimitri had retreated. 

It was not until the fourth day that Felix woke.

Felix blinked slowly awake, groaning as his joints popped faintly from disuse, the sheets around him rustling as he tried to sit. He seemed to catalog his surrounding briefly before falling back against the pillow, grunting slightly as his head made impact.

“Felix! Oh thank the goddess, you’re finally awake.” Sylvain lifted his head from where it was resting, pillowed against Felix’s lap. He took Felix’s hand, massaging it as though that would ease all of Felix’s aches and pains.

“How long was I out?” Felix asked, still groggy. “Ugh… and was I chewed up and spat out by a demonic beast or something? Everything hurts.”

“Uh… not quite. But I suppose you could interpret it that way? You’ve been unconscious for four days. You can thank Mercie for taking care of you later. Do you remember what happened?” Sylvain said. “We’re in Fhirdiad.” 

“I think so? I fought the boar.” Felix blinked rapidly, bringing up his spare hand to rub at his face.

“Yeah… Yeah, you did.” Sylvain chuckled uneasily. “You really gave me a scare there, bud.” 

“And then… and then I lost. You were holding my hand.” He glanced at where Sylvain had grasped Felix’s hand in both of his. “You’re doing it again, but it was… it was the other one? I should have beaten him. I got careless.” 

Felix tsked. “Almost like you. How abhorrent.”

Sylvain let out a watery laugh. “Guess I deserve that. But… I’m glad you’re still here, still alive. I… Goddess, Fe, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Felix frowned. 

“You didn’t need me. You chose to stay, even when we all knew it was wrong,” he said, voice softening. “You and Ingrid… and everyone. You chose to follow a reckless boar, hellbent on destruction. I wanted to, too, but I couldn’t watch him like that. I wanted to follow my friend, but that wasn’t him.”

Felix sighed. “I should have — we should have stayed. You didn’t need us, didn’t need _me_ , but I should have been there anyway.”

“Felix, I wanted — I wanted to go _with you_ , I just didn’t know how. I… I thought I had to be by Dimitri’s side. He’s our friend, our _king_. I didn’t want to stay, not really, but I couldn’t abandon him.” Sylvain heaved a shaky laugh. “It wasn’t until I saw the two of you, fighting to the death, that I knew there was somewhere else for me at all.”

Sylvain smiled softly, raising Felix’s hand to press a gentle kiss against Felix’s palm. The affection was unwarranted, but after spending four days by Felix’s bedside, he thought he could indulge himself a little. “If I had to choose again, I’d follow you anywhere.”

Felix turned his head away. “I needed to… do something, anything. The war… it’s destroyed this land, and the boar… he wasn’t doing anything for our people. They were _starving_ , forced to fight a senseless war. What am I good for if I cannot even protect the weak?”

Sylvain breathed in sharply, horrified at Felix’s admission.

“Don’t you ever think you’re not good for anything. That you’re not good enough. You’re so much stronger than the rest of us… And you care so deeply.” He laughed, harsh and self-deprecating. “I mean, look at me. I’m just… fumbling my way through, pretending to be an advisor, a strategist, when all I am is a relic-wielding body and a poor friend, unable to stick with those I care about.”

Felix stared at him, stricken. “You’ve always — well, you’ve never been a _great_ friend, always prattling on about women and slacking off whenever you could get away with it but… you stuck by me, put up with me even at my worst.”

Sylvain smiled sadly.

“Until I didn’t.”

“Until you didn’t.” Felix nodded, his eyes downcast. “But that was my choice and… I wish we could have protected our land together, but I can’t blame you. The war… it’s taken so much, from all of us. But it’s finally turning, isn’t it?”

“It is. We’re getting so close to bringing peace back to the Kingdom,” Sylvain said.

Felix scoffed, the sound small and frustrated. “And I… all I did was hinder that. I gave up too easily.” 

Sylvain had to set things right, clear the air between the two of them. If Felix couldn’t forgive himself yet, he had to at least know that Sylvain would never blame him. 

“Felix, I don’t care why you did what you had to. I mean, it really hurt to see you on that battlefield, but I… I don’t know what it would do to me if we had to fight you again. Please, don’t do that to me.” Sylvain sighed, gripping tight to Felix’s hand. “I just want you to live. Promise me you’ll live.”

“I don’t know… What place do I have here anymore?” Felix’s hand twisted harshly into the sheets, his other clenched into a fist within Sylvain’s grasp. “I… I betrayed Faerghus.”

Sylvain shook his head vigorously, determined to pull Felix from his self-doubt and self-hatred. “Fe — no, you stayed true to yourself and did what you thought you had to in order to protect your people. None of us can begrudge you for that, not me, not Ingrid, not _Dimitri_ , not any of us.”

“I — that’s not true, but. Thank you,” Felix said. His hand uncurled within Sylvain’s, moving instead to entwine their fingers. 

A thought seemed to strike him and he squinted sharply at Sylvain. “And Annette? Is she — did she make it through the battle?”

Sylvain dropped his head to his arms, unable to look Felix in the eye. “She — no, she fell. I wasn’t there, but I heard her scream, and Mercedes and the Professor — they were there.”

He sighed shakily. “I’m sorry, Fe.”

Felix let out a hoarse laugh. “Of course. Of course I would survive, and not the person more deserving.”

Sylvain breathed sharply. 

“Please — _please_ don’t say that. I wish that Annette had lived, I wish that we could have all made it through this war.” He paused to hold back a sniffle. Damn him, he was getting too emotional. “But I’m so, _so_ glad to have you here. I wish we hadn’t had to face each other, that you hadn’t fought Dimitri, but more than anything else, I’m glad you’re still here, still alive.”

Sylvain pressed light kisses against Felix’s hand, trailing up to his wrist. “I don’t — I don’t know what I’d do without you, Fe. I need you. Goddess, if there’s one thing that these four cold months have shown, it’s that I need you, alive, here, next to me.”

Silence rang out as the weight of Sylvain’s words hung between them.

Felix’s voice was gruff, a faint blush spreading up his neck. “You’re a sentimental fool.”

Sylvain stood, gently shoving at Felix’s thigh, sensing an opportunity in the shift in mood. Felix sighed roughly, wincing as he inched over slightly on the bed. Sylvain climbed up beside him, wrapping his arms around the other man. 

“Only for you. Always for you,” he whispered, breath teasing Felix’s disheveled hair. Goddess, Felix’s hair was disgusting, but he still wanted to run his hands through it, bury his face in the unwashed, ratty nest.

Felix bit back a chuckle. “Careful, Gautier, or I might think you mean things you don’t. You need to be careful not to flirt when you don’t mean it.”

Sylvain grinned, insouciant, head pressing in to lean against Felix’s.

“I always mean it with you.”

Felix scoffed. “And you were always one for ridiculous words.”

“I can’t help it, Fe. Being around you gives me such a warm, fuzzy feeling,” he said, punctuating his words with a warm squeeze of affection.

“Shut up! Goddess, you’re such an idiot.” Felix laughed, more openly, still pained and voice rough from disuse.

Sylvain pressed a light kiss to Felix’s cheek. “You just make me stupid.”

Felix scoffed lightly, turning to pull Sylvain in and shut him up with a kiss. The brief press of chapped lips against his own was far too short, definitely not enough to fill the chasm of want inside Sylvain, but a quiet, joyful laugh bubbled out anyway.

They lay, wrapped in quiet embrace, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I mean it, Fe.” Sylvain steeled himself. “I — I love you. I’ve loved you since — Goddess, probably since I saw you again, angry and seventeen, at the Academy six years ago. I can’t lose you. Don’t make me lose you.”

It felt freeing to finally say it, after pretending for five years that it wasn’t so, another year waiting for the right chance, and four months fervently hoping that they would both see the other side of the war to confess his feelings. 

Sylvain wanted to say it again.

“I love you, Felix Hugo Fraldarius. I love you. I — goddess, I know this is a lot, and way too fast, but — I want to have you in my life, from now until I die.” 

Felix sputtered slightly, cheeks and ears ridiculously red. It was impressive considering how much further he still had to go to recover from the blood loss.

Sylvain pressed another kiss to Felix’s temple. “Take some time to think about it while you’re healing. I’ll always be here for you.” 

Sylvain blinked back the rough tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes. 

“We made that promise, and I intend to keep it. To live with you until we die.”

Felix took a sharp inhale. “I… I’d like that.”

“And. I know… I know you’re not sure if you want to come with us. And you… you need to heal, after that battle.” Sylvain gently ran his fingers along the top of the bandages lining Felix’s torso. There were so many bandages, so many wounds to heal, even if they no longer bled. “So wait for me, Felix. Protect our people while we’re gone, and wait for me.”

There was still a war to fight, to win, but the victory would be so much sweeter with Felix waiting for him on the other side.

Felix buried his nose in Sylvain’s collar, his next words whispered and tense.

“I — I’ll try. Come back to me, Sylvain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can retweet this fic [here](https://twitter.com/euphemeas/status/1198689302609383425)! I'm [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas).
> 
> Concrit is welcomed.


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